“So the Hlat sprang your cubicle trap, removed the bait, carried the Kinmartens inside, and whipped out of the cubicle again before the rest current could take effect on it. It concluded correctly that everyone would decide it had been recaptured. After that, it moved about the Executive Block, observing events there and prepared to take action again if that appeared to be advisable. When you had concluded your operation successfully, it remained near the cubicle, waiting for me to arrive.”
Quillan shook his head. “That’s quite an animal!” he observed after some seconds. “You say, it’s in our general vicinity now?”
“Yes,” Klayung said. “It followed the cubicle down here, and has been drifting about the walls of the vestibule while we . . . well, while I talked.”
“Why doesn’t it show itself?”
Klayung cleared his throat. “For two reasons,” he said. “One is that rather large gun you’re holding on your knees. It saw you use it several times, and after all the shooting in the Executive Block, you see—”
Quillan slid the Miam Devil into its holster. “Sorry,” he said. “Force of habit, I guess. Actually, of course, I’ve understood for some minutes now that I wasn’t . . . well, what’s the other reason?”
“I’m afraid,” Klayung said, “that you offended it with your remark about its appearance. Hlats may have their share of vanity. At any rate, it seems to be sulking.”
“Oh,” said Quillan. “Well, I’m sure,” he went on rather loudly, “that it understands I received the description from a prejudiced source. I’m quite willing to believe it was highly inaccurate.”
“Hm-m-m,” said Klayung. “That seems to have done it, major. The wall directly across from us—”
Something like a ripple passed along the side wall of the vestibule. Then the wall darkened suddenly, turned black. Quillan blinked, and the Hlat came into view. It hung, spread out like a spider, along half the length of the vestibule wall. Something like a huge, hairy amoeba in overall appearance, though the physical structures under the coarse, black pelt must be of very unamoeba-like complexity. No eyes were in sight, but Quillan had the impression of being regarded steadily. Here and there, along the edges and over the surface of the body, were a variety of flexible extensions.
Quillan stood up, hitched his gun belt into position, and started over toward the wall.
“Lady Pendrake,” he said, “honored to meet you. Could we shake hands?”
The End
THE STAR HYACINTHS
On a bleak, distant unchartered world two ships lay wrecked and a lone man stared at a star hyacinth. Its brilliance burned into his retina . . . and he knew that men could easily kill and kill for that one beauty alone.
THE robbery of the Dosey Asteroids Shipping Station in a remote and spottily explored section of space provided the newscasting systems of the Federation of the Hub with one of the juiciest crime stories of the season. In a manner not clearly explained, the Dosey Asteroids Company had lost six months’ production of gem-quality cut star hyacinths valued at nearly a hundred million credits. It lost also its Chief Lapidary and seventy-eight other company employees who had been in the station dome at the time.
All these people appeared at first to have been killed by gunfire, but a study of their bodies revealed that only in a few instances had gun wounds been the actual cause of death. For the most part the wounds had been inflicted on corpses, presumably in an attempt to conceal the fact that disaster in another and unknown form had befallen the station.
The raiders left very few clues. It appeared that the attack on the station had been carried out by a single ship, and that the locks to the dome had been opened from within. The latter fact, of course, aroused speculation, but led the investigators nowhere.
Six years later the great Dosey Asteroids robbery remained an unsolved mystery.
THE two wrecked spaceships rested almost side by side near the tip of a narrow, deep arm of a great lake.
The only man on the planet sat on a rocky ledge three miles uphill from the two ships, gazing broodingly down at them. He was a big fellow in neatly patched shipboard clothing. His hands were clean, his face carefully shaved. He had two of the castaway’s traditional possessions with him; a massive hunting bow rested against the rocks, and a minor representative of the class of life which was this world’s equivalent of birds was hopping about near his feet. This was a thrush-sized creature with a jaunty bearing and bright yellow eyes. From the front of its round face protruded a short, narrow tube tipped with small, sharp teeth. Round, horny knobs at the ends of its long toes protected retractile claws as it bounded back and forth between the bow and the man, giving a quick flutter of its wings on each bound. Finally it stopped before the man, stretching its neck to stare up at him, trying to catch his attention.
He roused from his musing, glanced irritably down at it.
“Not now, Birdie,” he said. “Keep quiet!”
The man’s gaze returned to the two ships, then passed briefly along a towering range of volcanos on the other side of the lake, and lifted to the cloudless blue sky. His eyes probed on, searching the sunlit, empty vault above him. If a ship ever came again, it would come from there, the two wrecks by the lake arm already fixed in its detectors; it would not come gliding along the surface of the planet . . .
Birdie produced a sharp, plaintive whistle. The man looked at it.
“Shut up, stupid!” he told it.
He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, took out a small object wrapped in a piece of leather, and unfolded the leather.
Then it lay in his cupped palm, and blazed with the brilliance of twenty diamonds, seeming to flash the fires of the spectrum furiously from every faceted surface, without ever quite subduing the pure violet luminance which made a star hyacinth impossible to imitate or, once seen, to forget. The most beautiful of gems, the rarest, the most valuable. The man who was a castaway stared at it for long seconds, his breath quickening and his hand beginning to tremble. Finally he folded the chip of incredible mineral back into the leather, replaced it carefully in his pocket.
When he looked about again, the sunlit air seemed brighter, the coloring of lake and land more vivid and alive. Once during each of this world’s short days, but no oftener, he permitted himself to look at the star hyacinth. It was a ritual adhered to with almost religious strictness, and it had kept him as sane as he was ever likely to be again, for over six years.
It might, he sometimes thought, keep him sane until a third ship presently came along to this place. And then . . .
The third ship was coming along at the moment, still some five hours’ flight out from the system. She was a small ship with lean, rakish lines, a hot little speedster, gliding placidly through subspace just now, her engines throttled down.
Aboard her, things were less peaceful.
THE girl was putting up a pretty good fight but getting nowhere with it against the bull-necked Fleetman who had her pinned back against the wall.
Wellan Dasinger paused in momentary indecision at the entrance to the half-darkened control section of the speedboat. The scuffle in there very probably was none of his business. The people of the roving Independent Fleets had their own practices and mores and resented interference from uninformed planet dwellers. For all Dasinger knew, their blue-eyed lady pilot enjoyed roughhousing with the burly members of her crew. If the thing wasn’t serious . . .
He heard the man rap out something in the Willata Fleet tongue, following the words up with a solid thump of his fist into the girl’s side. The thump hadn’t been playful, and her sharp gasp of pain indicated no enjoyment whatever. Dasinger stepped quickly into the room.
He saw the girl turn startled eyes toward him as he came up behind the man. The man was Liu Taunus, the bigger of the two crew members . . . too big and too well muscled by a good deal, in fact, to make a sportsmanlike suggestion to divert his thumpings to Dasinger look like a sensible approach. Besides Dasinger didn’t know the Willa
ta Fleet’s language. The edge of his hand slashed twice from behind along the thick neck; then his fist brought the breath whistling from Taunus’s lungs before the Fleetman had time to turn fully towards him.
It gave Dasinger a considerable starting advantage. During the next twenty seconds or so the advantage seemed to diminish rapidly. Taunus’s fists and boots had scored only near misses so far, but he began to look like the hardest big man to chop down Dasinger had yet run into. And then the Fleetman was suddenly sprawling on the floor, face down, arms flung out limply, a tough boy with a thoroughly bludgeoned nervous system.
Dasinger was straightening up when he heard the thunk of the wrench. He turned sharply, discovered first the girl standing ten feet away with the wrench in her raised hand, next their second crew member lying on the carpet between them, finally the long, thin knife lying near the man’s hand.
“Thanks, Miss Mines!” he said, somewhat out of breath. “I really should have remembered Calat might be somewhere around.”
Duomart Mines gestured with her head at the adjoining control cabin. “He was in there,” she said, also breathlessly. She was a long-legged blonde with a limber way of moving, pleasing to look at in her shaped Fleet uniform, though with somewhat aloof and calculating eyes. In the dim light of the room she seemed to be studying Dasinger now with an expression somewhere between wariness and surprised speculation. Then, as he took a step forward to check on Calat’s condition, she backed off slightly, half lifting the wrench again.
Dasinger stopped and looked at her. “Well,” he said, “make up your mind! Whose side are you on here?”
Miss Mines hesitated, let the wrench down. “Yours, I guess,” she acknowledged. “I’d better be, now! They’d murder me for helping a planeteer.”
DASINGER went down on one knee beside Calat, rather cautiously though the Fleetman wasn’t stirring, and picked up the knife. Miss Mines turned up the room’s lights. Dasinger asked, “What was this . . . a mutiny? You’re technically in charge of the ship, aren’t you?”
“Technically,” she agreed, added, “We were arguing about a Fleet matter.”
“I see. We’ll call it mutiny.” Dasinger checked to be sure Calat wasn’t faking unconsciousness. He inquired, “Do you really need these boys to help you?”
Duomart Mines shook her blond head. “Not at all. Flying the Mooncat is a one-man job.”
“I did have a feeling,” Dasinger admitted, “that Willata’s Fleet was doing a little featherbedding when they said I’d have to hire a crew of three to go along with their speedboat.”
“Uh-huh.” Her tone was non-committal. “They were. What are you going to do with them?”
“Anywhere they can be locked up safely?”
“Not safely. Their own cabin’s as good as anything. They can batter their way out of here if they try hard enough. Of course we’d hear them doing it.”
“Well, we can fix that.” Dasinger stood up, fished his cabin key out of a pocket and gave it to her. “Tan suitcase standing at the head of my bunk,” he said. “Mind bringing that and the little crane from the storeroom up here?”
Neither of the Fleetmen had begun to stir when Duomart Mines came riding a gravity crane back in through the door a couple of minutes later, the suitcase dangling in front of her. She halted the crane in the center of the room, slid out of its saddle with a supple twist of her body, and handed Dasinger his cabin key.
“Thanks.” Dasinger took the suitcase from the crane, unlocked and opened it. He brought out a pair of plastic handcuffs, aware that Miss Mines stood behind him making an intent scrutiny of what could be seen of the suitcase’s contents. He didn’t blame her for feeling curious; she was looking at a variety of devices which might have delighted the eyes of both a professional burglar and military spy. She offered no comment.
Neither did Dasinger. He hauled Liu Taunus over on his back, fastened handcuffs about the Fleetman’s wrists, then rolled him over on his face again. He did the same for Calat, hung the suitcase back in the crane, slung a leg across the crane’s saddle and settled into it.
Miss Mines remarked, “I’d look their cabin over pretty closely for guns and so on before leaving them there.”
“I intend to. By the way, has Dr. Egavine mentioned how close we are to our destination?” Dasinger maneuvered the crane over to Taunus, lowered a beam to the small of the Fleetman’s back and hoisted him up carefully, arms, head and legs dangling.
The blond girl checked her watch. “He didn’t tell me exactly,” she said, “but there’s what seems to be a terraprox in the G2 system ahead. If that’s it, we’ll get there in around five hours depending on what subspace conditions in the system are. Dr. Egavine’s due up here in thirty minutes to give me the final figures.” She paused, added curiously, “Don’t you know yourself just where we’re going?”
“No,” Dasinger said. “I’m financing the trip. The doctor is the man with the maps and other pertinent information.”
“I thought you were partners.”
“We are. Dr. Egavine is taciturn about some things. I’ll bring him back here with me as soon as I have these two locked away.” Dasinger finished picking up Calat, swung the crane slowly towards the door, the unconscious Fleetmen suspended ahead of him.
DR. EGAVINE stood at the open door to his stateroom as Dasinger came walking back up the passage from the crew quarters and the storage. Quist, the doctor’s manservant, peered out of the stateroom behind him.
“What in heaven’s name were you doing with those two men?” Egavine inquired, twitching his eyebrows disapprovingly up and down. The doctor was a tall, thin man in his forties, dressed habitually in undertaker black, with bony features and intense dark eyes. He added, “They appeared to be unconscious . . . and fettered!”
“They were both,” Dasinger admitted. “I’ve confined them to their cabin.”
“Why?”
“We had a little slugfest in the control section a few minutes ago. One of the boys was beating around on our pilot, so I laid him out, and she laid out the other one when he tried to get into the act with a knife. She says the original dispute was a Fleet matter . . . in other words, none of our business. However, I don’t know. There’s something decidedly fishy about the situation.”
“In what way?” Egavine asked.
Dasinger said, “I checked over the crew quarters for weapons just now and found something which suggests that Willata’s Fleet is much more interested in what we’re doing out here than we thought.”
Egavine looked startled, peered quickly along the passage to the control section. “I feel,” he said, lowering his voice, “that we should continue this discussion behind closed doors . . .”
“All right.” Quist, a bandy-legged, wiry little man with a large bulb of a nose and close-set, small eyes, moved back from the door. Dasinger went inside. Egavine pulled the door shut behind them and drew a chair out from the cabin table. Dasinger sat down opposite him.
“What did you find?” Dr. Egavine asked.
Dasinger said, “You know Miss Mines is supposed to be the only Fleet member on board who speaks the Federation’s translingue. However, there was a listening device attached to the inside of the cabin communicator in the crew quarters. Its settings show that the Willata Fleet people have bugged each of the Mooncat’s other cabins, and also—which I think is an interesting point—the control section. Have you and Quist discussed our project in any detail since coming aboard?”
“I believe we did, on several occasions,” Egavine said hesitantly.
“Then we’d better assume Taunus and Calat knew that we’re looking for the wreck of the Dosey Asteroids raider, and . . .”
Egavine put a cautioning finger to his lips. “Should we. . .?”
“Oh, no harm in talking now,” Dasinger assured him. “I pulled the instrument out and dropped it in my cabin. Actually, the thing needn’t be too serious if we stay on guard. But of course we shouldn’t go back to the Fleet station after we
have the stuff. Gadgetry of that kind suggests bad intentions . . . also a rather sophisticated level of criminality for an I-Fleet. We’ll return directly to the Hub. We might have to go on short rations for a few weeks, but we’ll make it. And we’ll keep those two so-called crew members locked up.”
The doctor cleared his throat. “Miss Mines . . .”
“She doesn’t appear to be personally involved in any piratical schemes,” Dasinger said. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have bugged her cabin and the control rooms. If we dangle a few star hyacinths before her eyes, she should be willing to fly us back. If she balks, I think I can handle the Mooncat well enough to get us there.”
Dr. Egavine tugged pensively at his ear lobe. “I see.” His hand moved on toward his right coat lapel. “What do you think of . . .”
“Mind watching this for a moment, doctor?” Dasinger interrupted. He nodded at his own hand lying on the table before him.
“Watch. . .?” Egavine began questioningly. Then his eyes went wide with alarm.
Dasinger’s hand had turned suddenly sideways from the wrist, turned up again. There was a small gun in the hand now, its stubby muzzle pointing up steadily at Egavine’s chest.
“Dasinger! What does . . .”
“Neat trick, eh?” Dasinger commented. “Sleeve gun. Now keep quiet and hold everything just as it is. If you move or Quist over there moves before I tell you to, you’ve had it, doctor!”
HE reached across the table with his left hand, slipped it beneath Egavine’s right coat lapel, tugged sharply at something in there, and brought out a flat black pouch with a tiny spray needle projecting from it. He dropped the pouch in his pocket, said, “Keep your seat, doctor,” stood up and went over to Quist. Quist darted an anxious glance at his employer, and made a whimpering sound in his throat.
“You’re not getting hurt,” Dasinger told him. “Just put your hands on top of your head and stand still. Now let’s take a look at the thing you started to pull from your pocket a moment ago . . . Electric stunsap, eh? That wasn’t very nice of you, Quist! Let’s see what else—
Complete Short Fiction (Jerry eBooks) Page 91